The One Where Stephanie Finally Does A Top Ten Post (AKA Stephanie Posts Again in the Same Week. It’s a Christmas Miracle!)

I’m not big on “Top Ten” or “Top Anything” posts (unless they’re snarky and funny), but there are some things I need to get off my chest. (And I don’t mean the spaghetti noodle that I dropped down into my decolletage a couple weeks ago, that had to be peeled from my boob. We need adult bibs, people.) So let me get right to it.

Top Ten Things My Coworkers Need to Cease. Immediately. Or I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole.

Numero One-o: Ladies, I know you like to hover over the toilet. It’s probably the only time you ever hover over anything. Maybe you get off on it. Maybe it’s a workout for your quads. Maybe you’re doing some weird, fucked up kegel exercise that can only be done while hovering over the toilet. Look, you do you. And I’ll do me. (Or wait. Yeah, okay, I will. But hopefully not only me. Wow, can I digress.) But please, for the love of all that is good and dry, please wipe up your little piss puddles that you dribble all over the motherfucking seats. And while you’re at it – you know that can of Lysol on the back of every tank? CLEAN YO SHIT UP. Nasty twaffles. (That’s twat + waffle for those not in the know.) (Now you’re in the know.) (It’s better than being in the no.) (You’re welcome.) Oh. And one more thing, you nasty hagwipes.

Numero Two-o: I know you’re on your little New Years’ Resolution health kick that you’ll scrap in a few more weeks. Some of you have already scrapped them. (You’re my favorites.) I get it. Okay? I could stand to lost a donkey’s worth of pounds. And I know I should get on that, but fuckin’ hell I find it hard to self-motivate. (AND she’s off! Digressing again!) But you and those fucking green drinks. I have a bullet (I’m talking about the juicing bullet, not the one in my nightstand. Perverts.), and I used it for a while. Perhaps I’ll use it again when I’m feeling brave. They taste great if you do them right. But please, please, on behalf of everyone in this godforsaken room, please do not drink a thirty-two ouncer and then happily go about your day while you choke us all with the noxious fumes coming out of your exhaust pipe. I’m seriously choking on your colon clouds, and I can’t fucking take it. It brings tears to my eyes, and my clothes smell like your asshole. And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you for it. Cut that shit to a small drink every other day. Or I’ll kill you. Slowly. With a spork. Stinkhole.

Numero Three-o: Not exactly a cease immediately, but more like a WHAT THE FUCK. Ladies, again, I’m talking to you. Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom? Are you propping your feet up and using that for leverage while you push out the mess you’re about to leave on the toilet? Are you so backed up that you have to damage the lock on the door with your pushing? Are you propping your feet up to hide so that no one can see your feet and know it’s you making us plug in a candle warmer by the sink? (We totally still know it’s you, because we can recognize the ringtone on your phone. You do realize you’re getting the assgerms of everyone who’s ever used that stall today ON YOUR PHONE, right?) Are you in there getting fucked, propping your feet up? If so, I hope it’s not by Panel Van Paco. Because I’m pretty sure he prefers little boys. (Yes, I work with some fucked up people. And yes, I’m being mean and leaping to wild assumptions.) I don’t get it. But those footprints are about a size ten. So I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Ahem. Queen Bitch.

Numero Four-o: Stop with the ginormous attention-seeking huffs you make at every little thing you’re working on. Every five fucking seconds. I don’t give a rat’s ass, and I’m not going to ask you. Every five fucking seconds. What the fuck is wrong with you. I’m not doing it. It’s bad enough I have to listen to your ragehuffs, I sure as hell am not going to willfully subject myself to your asinine rants that you only brought upon yourself by being such a fucking bitchwhore.

Numero Five-o: Could you please stop asking me every single time I cook soup, why it makes exploding sounds in the microwave? For the Last. Fucking. Time. It’s the carrots, people! Carrots go boom in the microwave. Next time you ask, I’m gonna tell you that you have 10 seconds to reach Minimum Safe Distance. And then Kablooey. Because I say we nuke the entire thing from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

Numero Six-o: Stop showing me pictures of your baby. It’s ugly. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s all wrinkled, and I know it came out of your or your wife’s vagina, and that squicks me out. Stop making me think of your vagina. Stop making me picture your vagina. Stop telling me how many stitches it took to make your wife’s vagina fuckable again. Stop telling me about your precious babe’s head that was misshapen by your wife’s vagina. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ANYONE’S VAGINA. And I don’t want to look at eighteen thousand pictures of your baby Every. Single. Day. You’ve done what almost every human in the history of ever has done. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopopopopopopopopop. Like gremlins. And gremlins were mean, and mischievous and stole all my candy. And had to be exploded because of their vaginas. Stop. It.

Numero Seven-o: Stop spoiling shows and movies that you know I have every intention of seeing but haven’t gotten around to it yet. You know who I’m talking about, geek boy. I know you’re doing it on purpose. You even admitted it. Stop it before I stab you in the nuts. And I know all about the pain you suffered for your vasectomy to keep from reproducing again with your cheating-ass wife. You’re a good dude. You’re fun. You make me laugh, uproariously. But if you don’t stop willfully spoiling shit for me, I will stab you in the nuts with those scissors you keep in a little leather case on your waist. What the fuck is that about, anyway? FOR NUT STABBING, SPOILERHEAD!

Numero Eight-o: For the umpteen-zillionth time, I don’t drink coffee. I’m not gonna suddenly sprout the coffee drinking gene today. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m an adult (mostly). Yes, I’m American. Yes, I’m tired. I don’t like coffee. I love the aroma, but I hate the bitter flavor. Yes, I’ve tried it with milk. Yes, I’ve tried it with sugar. Yes, I’ve tried it with honey straight from a bee’s asshole. (Yes, I know that’s not how bees make honey. Shut up.) No, I’m not gonna change my mind when you wave a mug of coffee fresh from the shit piles of Guatemalan bats that’s been further flavored with hazelnut or vanilla or your grandmother’s earwax. I. Don’t. Drink. Coffee. You’ve quizzed me about this every fucking day for three and a half fucking years. Leave me alone! Or I’ll steal your cane and beat you with it!

Numero Nein! Nein! Nein!-o: I know it’s January. I know it’s cold. I know you can’t wait for summer. I know you’ll say you can’t wait for cooler weather when summer does hit. I know it’s Wednesday, and we’re “halfway through the week, yay!” I know you can’t wait for Friday. I know you can’t wait for the weekend. I know the supervisor is a lily-livered dickwhistle. I know you can’t wait for lunch. I know the time is dragging. I know it’s 3:00, which means fresh coffee time. I know you’re pissed because he got “your” parking space again. I know you hate me and the world and life, because you say so every fucking day. I know the networks are running slow. You say these things. Every. Single. Day. Almost all of you. And I’m sick to death of it! I hate the office humdrum. I loathe the monotony. I hate Corporate America with my whole being. And I know I’ve been guilty of the same. And I know it’s not all your fault. And I know you’re just trying to find ways to make it through the hell of working for the man. But I’m fucking sick of it. And you’re not helping.

Numero Last-o: Please stop looking at the clock and reminding me of the time every quarter hour. You are not helping the day pass any faster or easier. You are, in fact, making it drag on indefinitely. You are reminding me that my life is slipping away second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month…and I resent you for it. I know you’re a sweet lady. Aside from your raging racism. (Thankfully, you actually let me gently point out when you say racist things.) But please. You’re lengthening my work days, and it pains me so.

Numero Bonus-o: You know how you always bitch and moan about people interrupting you when you’re so clearly mired knee-deep in a hodonkey of a project? You know how when you’re done and you see me so clearly mired knee-deep in my own hodonkey of a project? You know how you do that thing you hate other people for doing, by interrupting me for mindless chit-chat or to brag about your life, or to complain about your life and how you have it worse than anyone else on earth, or how if you were in charge you’d change everything because you’re so obviously doing all the work around here while you surf Facebook and Pinterest or take phone calls about your upcoming cruise, or by finding something you need to one-up someone about? You know? Ringing any bells? Stop. Fucking. Doing it. Queen Bitch, I’m looking at you again.

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I know I’ve missed a shitton. I’ll probably think of heaps more right after I hit publish. But these still stand. What are your biggest work-related pet peeves? Or hell, any! Oh Oh, I just thought of one! (See Numero Bonus-o.)

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This post brought to you by:

Assholes and butterbeans. Because butterbeans are assholes.

Queen Bitch for inspiring so much of this post.

Cold green tea with honey and ginseng. Because I’m trying not to drink soda, and I’m tired of water.

O my GAWD that was hilarious. For my part, clock watching and whatever, I’m sorry. That was also sick. People are various types of gross holes and they need, for the love of GOD, to clean up after themselves and they’re too fat and lazy to do it. Let the janitor. Well they fired the fucking janitor which means YOU’RE your own janitor. Because I’m not. Thank God I’m a guy. If I see blood in the bathroom it’s because the kids aren’t getting along. Oh. Kids is a metaphor for co-workers. Or sometimes not. And it means someone else is going to clean that up because I’m not. I’m going to go get a cup of tea.

Also – chicks are soooo much worse than dudes. I worked at a convenience store when I was a teenager. And we used to fight over who would get to clean which bathroom. I usually one – always the dudes. Sure there was piss on the floor. But WOMEN. WOMEN. And their bloody stuff everywhere. And the…the…the poo! Gimme mopping up a puddle over the women’s room any day!

Many laughs. There was the time when I worked with someone who told me I typed too loud. But she wouldn’t tell me-she told just about everyone else in the office. That’s a work pet peeve of mine: if you have a problem with me, deal with me. Don’t take it all around the office.

And Queen Bitch bitches about my typing when I’m on the PC. But when I’m on my Mac, she says I’m hitting it too hard, too. I’d like to hit her face. That oughta fix it! You try that and see what happens.

Officially a Stephellaneous groupie.
O My Fucking Gollum that hillarious, you’ve got your automatic assualt rifle set on “don’t give a fuck anymore”.
Apperantly laughing 100 times burns as much chalories as cycling for ten minues (more even!)
So thank you for shedding some of this fat off my mess (i.e.: body, hehehe)

Tie your shoe laces cause you are a trip
You are working with people who probably don’t have lives after they leave work
Their soul purpose is to disrupt people who do
They lay a awake at nite trying to figure out who’s their next prey will be
Stop walking around with a bullseye on your chest
Smile ,hover,and laugh a lot so they’ll think your crazy and won’t ask you about the carrots
As always Sheldon

Ha, your workplace is delightful isn’t it?! Great post with far too many that I can relate to;
Firstly, the toilet issue – don’t people look before leaving? I mean, maybe you don’t want to see the contents of your bladder but I always have to check to make sure everything has gone – it’s rude not to make sure it’s acceptable for the next! And that poster is mint! Some disgraceful ‘lady’ left a used pad STUCK TO THE BACK OF THE DOOR when I worked at the cinema and muggins here had to peel it off. Bleurgh…
Secondly, the coffee thing. I’m the same as you, love the smell (and taste of coffee icing!) but it’s too bitter to drink a cup. I don’t get badgered about coffee though, it’s wine. What do you mean you don’t drink Pinot? How do you get through a day? Let’s buy Prosecco, you’ll love a bit of fizz, everyone loves a bit of fizz. How do you EVER enjoy yourself?
Erm… well a) I don’t need alcohol to enjoy myself and b) I like VODKA. Just because I don’t like wine doesn’t make me inhuman, shut up!
Finally, the constant moaning. About everything (us moaning about moaning does not qualify moaning). This is why I avoid Facebook a lot these days because their statuses continue the drivel when they get home. No need.
And breathe… 🙂

I can have iced coffee, and YOU MUST HAVE ICED COFFEE TOO! I mean, if I didn’t know any better, you didn’t like coffee or something and were tired of people asking if you liked coffee and if you’ve had it every way. But that can’t be true. I mean, have you had it with milk AND flavoring? Have you had it from a French Press? How can you not like coffee? So you don’t like coffee? Well have you tried it with…? But wait, you don’t like coffee? How can you not like coffee? I think you must not have ever had good coffee. So you don’t like coffee? (repeat) (repeat) (repeat)

That was about as entertaining a rant as I’ve seen in a while! I’m beginning to see why the maintenance staff where I work always says the women’s bathroom is always 10 times as nasty as the men’s room. While I’m happy to meet Panel Van Paco, I was wondering if maybe Carl the Janitor was helping out with those footprints as well…

You could not have possibly summed up the utter horror and distaste I have with being forced to look at people’s baby pictures any better. The next time it happens, I’ll now probably start snickering when I think of stapling vaginas…

“Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom?”

What the actual fuck?!

And yes on the coffee! Stop the coffee peer pressure, people! (Although I’ll admit that once my husband made me an iced coffee that tasted good, but on principle of disliking coffee, I wouldn’t drink anymore.)

What is it with the hovering – you can’t catch anything off a toilet seat, especially if Lysol is available???? You are so right that they are Nasty Twaffles – that should be said in the voice of Gollum. I have this hysterical image of your Queen Bitch with the big feet – why are they on the door? Is she having weird sex with someone in the bathroom?
I have never worked in a cubicle. I used to think I was lucky but now I think I a missing out on stuff…

Wyatt was right, you are ‘batshit crazy’!! Almost a nose wash with my coffee, but managed to control it. Would love to make you some coffee with my new French press-taste is totally different and flavor is scrumptious, just like that smell you like with no bitter aftertaste.

It’s a rumour? (See what I did there?) hahahahahahahahaha I AM batshit crazy but I am NOT tasting your coffee, the last one I tried tasted like fish oil and chocolate. It COULD have been the fact I put hot cocoa and powdered cream in it to try to make it taste better, but, no thank you!

And I hate that you're depressed. I hate it so much. I'd come over if I could, and we could rant and rave and make fun of morons and assholes and morons' assholes. And watch stupid funny movies and eat Chinese and punch a baby or something. Maybe you'd feel a little little better.

I do not understand women in the bathroom, and can only blame poor child-rearing skills of others. I have no desire to see anyone’s menstrual blood. (Truly, how many of us even wanna deal with our own, ffs?) I have seen this in many places, including private homes. I just cannot wrap my head around a person who cleans her house, mails out invites, decorates, entertains and yet, somehow feels we all want to see her menstrual blood lingering in the guest bath. I cannot even. I mean, they come with wrappers…or at the very least, a little toilet tissue, please…
I tell you what though, on the flip side, I was shopping somewhere once, and there was a sign in the stall that suggested we walk our “sanitary items” to the waste receptacle in the main lobby, and not to use those stainless boxes in the stalls. I was pretty angsty about that, and management should be glad I was not bleeding, because I had a right mind to put my blood all over errrrrything, like some kinda vaginal vandalism from a Dexter crime scene. I had to talk myself out of painting the washroom with my lipstick, and leaving unused “sanitary items” all over the place. I was so infuriated. Only a man would think a woman in the throes of the curse of the red tide would like to hold her dregs and walk them out to the fucking lobby. Misogynistic freak.
Anyway, charming post. Sorry you work with people. lol

HAHAHAHAHA! Oh my god, how horrible! No fucking way am I walking out into some lobby holding the evidence of the bane of my very existence in the palm of my hand! Only to have to return to wash again, because even wrapped EWWWFUCKINGEWWWW!